Neverwinter Forest So, what's the problem?

Enough is enough. There it was again — the sweet, venomous voice that had encouraged Cypress to denounce his brother. The young wolf’s powerful hindquarters bunched in readiness to spring — his mind, he felt, was made up — but before he could give in to the visceral desire to bulldoze his sister-in-law to the ground, he stopped. Drew a slow, steadying breath. Maintained his sinister, sulphureous stare.

It was Ondine who looked away first.

Cypress watched with dizzying triumph as the water witch’s mismatched eyes slewed away from his to meander across the scenery with feigned nonchalance. “This is Scimitar’s forest,” he informed her in a seething growl, tousled fur bristling as he emerged from the marsh reeds and rose to his full height. Deliberately, he lifted his regal head and straightened his carriage, his tail curling high and proud above his back. Sharp ears, tall and set close together, shot forward upon his skull as his lips began to curl, revealing the unsullied alabaster of his fangs. A low, menacing rumble churned in his gut and bubbled up to break through the razor-edged prison of his teeth. It hurt unbearably to see this female — this outsider — in Eshe’s place. Ondine was a mother and mate to Kjalarr — but Neverwinter’s queen? Never. That title, Cypress felt, would always belong to Eshe. In a twisted way, it was her honor he sought to defend.

Mama, why? Why’d you hafta —

Somehow, seeing Kjalarr upon Scimitar’s throne had hurt less than this.

Cypress’ next thought pained him all the more: Rannoch would stand with me.